


Good Graces

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Quid Pro Quo [6]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, Choking, Dirty Talk, M/M, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 11:11:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18548587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank sides with Wade for once.





	Good Graces

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for me.

By the time Wilson shows up again, Frank has done plenty of thinking. More, if he’s honest, than he really expected to. He doesn’t know if he’s really ready to hash anything out, especially not on a Wednesday night when he’s supposed to be up at 5AM the next day for work, but he figures nothing can ever be ideal.

Whatever ideal would be in this case, he’s not even sure.

He hears the knock -- more a dull thunk -- and closes his book, sets it on the shitty coffee table, and goes to open the door. The thunk happens twice more before he gets the deadbolts open, and he realizes as he’s pulling the door open that it’s not ‘knocking’, it’s a head thudding against the door.

If he hadn’t already been clued in to who was there by the hour and lack of forewarning, he’s certain it’s Wilson now. And of course it is; he’s not wearing his whole ridiculous gimp suit thing, but he _is_ wearing the mask. He stumbles forward when Frank drags the door open, and Frank ends up grabbing him by the shoulders to support him, all hopes of this being a simple conversation begin to crumble.

The mask doesn’t translate a lot of emotion, with the blank white eyes and the featureless red and black spandex, but given that every line of Wilson’s posture speaks of unhappiness in a way that is alarmingly clear, Frank sort of gets the picture. He still has to work to keep himself from bodily throwing the man when he collapses forward and drapes himself against Frank.

“Nate’s being dumb and I said some dumb stuff and I can’t stay with Al cuz she’s still mad that I peed on the couch that time but it’s not my fault I was regrowing my whole bottom half and”

“Jesus Christ,” Frank grumbles, trying to step back. Wilson just moves with him, undeterred, still rambling with his face pressed into Frank’s shoulder.

“I’d sleep in the park but it’s raining and I know you punched me in the face last time but it’s okay and if you don’t want me to stay that’s fair but first can I at least use your toilet --”

“Stop, Christ, just -- stop.” Frank heaves a sigh and manages to disentangle himself from Wilson enough to drag the merc in through the door and get it shut. When he turns, Wilson is still standing where he left him, managing to look wholly miserable even with the mask. Frank grits his teeth, and nudges him  “Go sit on the couch or something.”

“Kay, except can I visit the little murderer’s room first, I really do gotta tinkle.”

Frank angles his head vaguely upward, searching for patience and surprising himself with how little he’s actually irritated when he gestures toward the bathroom. Wilson leans in and, before Frank can shove him back, kisses his cheek, and then darts off for the bathroom with a shout of thanks.

By the time he comes back, Frank’s halfway done making them both a cup of coffee, the drip pot blubbering as he gets the mugs down. Frank braces for more clinging, but Wade just flops down on the couch like some soap opera drama queen. He’s even flung his arm over his face.

“Sit like a human being,” Frank grouses, carrying the coffee over. “Take the stupid mask off and drink this.”

Despite a good deal of put-upon sighing, Wade does as directed, pushing his mask up over his nose and sitting up, only pulling it off when Frank holds the coffee out of his reach. Once the mask is shoved under one thigh and the idiotic ‘Bitch Fuel’ mug is cupped in Wade’s hands, Frank finally sits down as well. He doesn’t shove Wade away when he silently slumps over to rest his temple against Frank’s shoulder.

This is the part where Frank wishes he had bought a television after all, or at least hadn’t totaled his laptop. Put something on for noise, let Wilson veg out, drink some coffee, no obligation for conversation. It was hard enough knowing they were going to have to talk about the boundaries bullshit, the idea of doing it while Wade’s in this mopey, clingy mood is utterly abhorrent.

“So, Cable?” he asks, nudging Wade with the shoulder he insists on resting against. “You wanna talk?”

“Yeah, tell me, what’d you guys get up to last week?” Wade asks eagerly, rolling his head back to stare imploringly at Frank. “He wouldn’t say, but judging how cranky-tired he was when he finally got home, I’m gonna assume it was more than a spanking.”

Frank closes his eyes, like he’s searching for patience. Irritation is easier to bear than embarrassment. “You said he was being stupid. Figure that’s usually your job. What happened?”

“Oh.”

Wade makes a face and drinks some of his coffee, and Frank half expects him to change the topic. He doesn’t expect silence, because even in his deepest sulks, at least around Frank, Wilson always finds something to natter on about.

“He’s pissed cuz I shot a guy he wanted left alive. Some diplomatic nudging shit, kill the Real Bad Guy and put a Less Bad Guy in his place.” As he talks, Wade pulls away physically, no longer leaning against Frank. “Probably yours isn’t the shoulder to cry on, I know, since you’re all about following orders, but you know. Not a ton of sympathetic options for Wade.”

That makes Frank frown for a number of reasons, but he gives Wilson a moment to ramble on. When he doesn’t, he prompts, “You have a reason?”

It’s interesting, how quick that pulls Wilson back up, just the idea that Frank’s interested in his reasoning. Frank figures he’s known several men willing to disobey orders, and every one of them had their reasons for it. Wilson could be an impulsive little shit, but every job they’d worked together, he’d been cooperative, professional. For a given value of professional, at least.

“Several,” Wilson says, mild and just a touch bitter. “Not that Mutant Jesus was willing to listen to any of ‘em.”

“Well, tell me then.”

Wade huffs, brows furrowing a little, eyes narrowing before they turn to the cup in his hands, like he’s trying to figure out the joke or catch to Frank asking. That’s fair, Frank supposes, since he’s generally telling Wilson to shut up, not asking to hear more.

“First of all, I speak Chinese and--”

Frank cuts him off, surprised. “You speak Chinese?”

“Mandarin and Cantonese, but I can’t read more than a few road signs, so don’t ask me to figure out your knock-off smartphone.”

It shouldn’t be such a surprise that the guy is multilingual, Frank thinks. More fun to talk if the audience can understand, and he’s well-traveled. He gestures for Wade to continue.

“Well, Nate _doesn’t_ speak Chinese, he speaks English and some weird future language and enough Spanish not to embarrass himself at Toloache. So I could hear when the guy told his lackeys to bring back Nate’s head, and he couldn’t, which was kind of a clue that the dude wasn’t set on playing nice.”

Made sense. The only people Frank had seen Wilson get more protective over than Cable were children.

“Also when he ran he grabbed a kid, barely old enough to know not to shit himself, to use as a shield.” This comes out in a growl, Wilson tone edging into anger. “Nate says he could have protected the kid if I gave him a chance and reasoned with the asshole, but I’m kind of tired of watching shitty guys get a leg up just for being slightly less shitty than the last guy.”

“Did the kid get hurt?”

An indignant scoff. “Psychologically, maybe. Nothing years of extensive therapy and maybe a few acts of violent retribution won’t fix. I shot the bastard in the head, dropped him before the kid could get hurt and the little scamp hopped off like a bunny.”

Frank shrugs. “Then I don’t see the problem.”

“I wasn’t reckless and I _was_ paying attention.”

“Sounds like it.”

Wilson goes very quiet at then, suspicion and confusion mingling again on his face, clouding the anger that had crossed it until he just looks stumped, staring at Frank. “Wait, you’re siding with _me_? Against _Nate_?”

Frank shrugs again. He’s only got Wilson’s side of the story, but it’s been fairly consistent between them -- Wilson runs his mouth nonstop, but he’s a terrible liar and doesn’t bother often.

“I thought he popped your pussy exactly right. Oh my god, have you been faking? Can you fake orgasms? Holy shit.”

Screwing his face up in a wince, Frank grips his cup of coffee. Clears his throat, takes a drink, tries to put the phrase ‘popped your pussy’ out of his head, especially in regards to himself. “From what you say, what you did made sense. Letting some prick live just because he _might_ reform into an ally out of gratitude is garbage tactics.” He frowns, takes another drink. “And there was a kid at risk. You made the right call. For once.”

“Wooooow,” Wilson breathes. “I can’t believe it. Is this the part where you kiss me and say you’ve loved me all along? I really didn’t think this was that kinda fic.”

“Drink your coffee and shut up.”

For a few minutes, Wade actually does, his smile slowly fading and he drains his cup. “I hate fighting with him. He turns into _such_ a prick.”

Huffing softly, making a decision, Frank takes Wilson’s empty cup and carries it to the kitchen, digging the spare drawer for a second. This wasn’t how he’d planned on doing this, but he really, _really_ doesn’t want the asshole moping around his apartment all night.

Wade’s eyes go comically wide when Frank holds the spare key to him. “Key to your heart?” Squinting, lips pursed, the mask of his earlier suspicion returning. “Are you being mind-controlled? _Is_ this the lovey-dovey bullshit fic?”

When Frank starts to pull the key away, Wade grabs it, greedy hands snatching it sharply away so he can clutch it to his chest like a prize. “I got no idea how long I’m keepin’ this place, but I’m tired of seein’ the mess you make pickin’ the lock.”

“ _Boyfriend privileges_.” Wilson breathes, and Frank scowls.

“No.”

Another shallow gasp, and then, in the same wondering tone, “ _F_ _uckbuddy privileges_.”

No point in correcting that. “I got ground rules. Break ‘em, I’m gonna make you wish you could stay dead.”

“Yeah, ‘course, yeah, lay ‘em on me.”

He’s so fucking eager, like a kicked dog looking for a friendly hand. It would be pathetic, if Frank didn’t have a soft spot a mile wide for kicked dogs.

“You don’t come here in that fucking mask. Or the rest of your weird get-up. I don’t need your enemies lookin’ for you here.”

“Fair.”

He expects jokes, but Wilson just looks studious, like he’s actually listening, committing the rules to memory. “You break something of mine, you fix it or you replace it. Come in here dripping blood or anything else all over my shit, clean up after yourself. I’ve seen the trash pit you live in, and I’m not interested in this becoming a duplicate.”

“What if I blackout before I can clean up and you come home before I’m back online?”

“We’ll figure it out if that happens,” Frank says after a second, unsure if Wilson is making fun or actually concerned. “Just don’t use my place as a flop. You don’t come here to lay low, you don’t bring work here, you don’t get annoyed or bored and break my shit.”

Eyes still wide, Wilson nods rapidly, bringing the key to his lips and kissing it. “Fuckbuddy privileges,” he says again, obviously pleased as he shoves the key into a pocket. He then promptly flops over to lean against Frank, not hugging, just almost comfortable pressure. He’s warm and, when he stops wiggling to worm himself closer, the unsolicited cuddling isn’t exactly bad.

Frank ends up resting a hand on Wade’s shoulder, Wade’s bald head leaning into his ribs. He wonders if it would be weird to pick up his book and read while they’re like this; it’s not a bad situation. They’re both quiet for a minute. Then:

“You wanna fool around a little?” Wilson asks hopefully. “Maybe a little skibidi?”

Brows furrowed, frowning, Frank looks down at him, not exactly annoyed yet. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I get the feeling _someone_ has been waiting a while to make that reference.” He says this while staring over his shoulder, as if looking into a camera only he’s aware of. This isn’t the first time he’s done this particular charade and it always weirds Frank out in a way he can’t exactly pinpoint.

He slaps Wilson’s shoulder to make him knock it off. “C’mere,” he says, and has to actually work not to laugh at the way Wilson’s eyes go wide. He scrambles, quite literally, to sit up properly and without prompting clambers into Frank’s lap. His hands on Frank’s shoulders are hot and clingy, his weight in Frank’s lap solid and neatly balanced. For a moment, he just stares at Frank, expectant, until Frank settles his own hands on those hips and says, “Well?”

“Boom boom, ay,” is Wilson’s breathy reply, and Frank badly wants to tell him not to be so fucking weird about it, but his lips are mashed against Wade’s and he very quickly forgets his complaint.

Wade kisses like it’s his sole purpose, like it requires all his focus. Frank expects him to get handsy long before he actually does. And even when he starts, the touching is less clumsy than he’d expected. One hand feels its way down his arm, the other slides against the side of his neck and then into his hair. When Wade rocks forward, pushing Frank back against the couch, it’s Frank that groans, caught off guard by how good it feels.

Immediately upon parting his lips, Wilson has his tongue in Frank’s mouth. Tastes like he hasn’t brushed his teeth in a few evers, but the wet slide of it against Frank’s own is pleasant. It’s good enough to ignore the taste, which ultimately fades from his focus quickly.

After a minute or so of kissing, Wade starts circling his hips, undulating down against Frank’s crotch in a heavy, slow grind, and humming some upbeat tune Frank doesn’t recognize. He bites at Wilson’s lips, not sure if he’s trying to get him to slow down or speed up, his own fingers pressing hard into Wade’s hips. Wade readjusts his position and then breaks the kiss so he can lean back, breathing a series of giggles as Frank palms his ass.

He’s not pretty, not in any of the ways people mean when they say that. No one is going to write poetry about the ruin of his skin or the way, when Frank shoves his hand up under Wade’s shirt to clutch at the heated musculature of his back, the skin seems to sort of peel and roll under his fingers. Some patches are so dry they feel almost scaly; some are smooth, some are swollen and feel like too much pressure would make them burst open. It has to be painful, and Frank tries to show some care, but Wade’s restless need to move makes it difficult.

And there is, when you can get past the surface, a sort of testament to the potential of the human form. Wilson is all lean muscle, toned and languid. He’s not soft anywhere; where he’s not padded by muscle he’s just bony. All of him, every inch, is hot against Frank, almost feverish, making him a pleasant warm weight in Frank’s lap. Give him a different skin, Frank thinks, and people would be tripping over themselves for a chance to fuck him, at least until they got him talking.

Of course, maybe Frank’s not the best person to say listening to Wade talk is a deterrent. After all, he’d just given him a key to his apartment, thinks of him, as much as he could think of anyone, as a friend.

“I don’t wanna be the boss today,” Wilson grumbles, restless fingers combing over the back of Frank’s head, stroking through his hair. He makes it sound like it’s a chore he’s being asked to undergo, and Frank feels a thread of irritation at that.

Wade goes totally still against him when he leans in and bites sharply at the joint of his neck and shoulder, sinking his teeth in to see what kind of noise the merc will make. It’s a good noise, Frank thinks, a jagged, shocked inhale that transmutes quickly into an appreciative groan when Frank closes his lips over the mark and sucks a little. Any marks he puts on Wade will be gone in moments -- Wilson left him with a huge, poorly placed hickey last time, and Frank would love to return the favour, but some things just aren’t possible.

“Who said I’m gonna let you,” Frank growls, and Wilson actually _shivers_. Frank rucks his shirt up his back, finally dragging both hands off the swell of Wade’s ass, and tugs on the garment until Wilson takes the hint and pulls it the rest of the way off. Frank rewards him by kissing at his collarbone, over the curve of his chest, and, as Wilson bends back to give him space, pressing the flat of his tongue to a nipple.

The breathy, almost nervous laughter makes him want to bite again, and he does when Wilson says, “Shoulda guessed you were a tit man.” Wade’s skin is irregular and sometimes shockingly fragile; Frank means the bite to be playful but almost immediately tastes blood. It would worry him more if the noises Wade was making were any less enthusiastic after.

His mouth tastes coppery and bitter when he sits back, and when Wade kisses him again, fingers wending into the longer parts of his hair to pull his head back at an agreeable angle, the merc moans pleasantly, sitting back to lick his lips. “Mmm, _jus de Wade_. You gonna go cannibal on me Frank?”

“You’re a sick puppy, Wilson,” Frank mutters, but he’s still smiling. Wilson seems to have that effect on him.

Wilson has a good voice. It suits him, a little rasping, a little rough, but it’s never as obnoxious as Frank expects.

“Are you gonna punish me?”

Frank lets his smile be a leer. “Maybe if you’re good.”

“I think you have that backwards, Frankie,” Wade says, looking down at him with a grin that’s prettier than it has any right being, all things considered. “We had this lesson before -- good boys get treats. Punishment is for when I’m bad. You should know that, really, given the whole nighttime, rawr, ‘have gun, will shoot’ routine.”

Shutting Wilson up is always a pleasure, and wrapping his fingers around that slender throat does the trick beautifully for once.

“I punish whoever I decide deserves it.”

“Kinky…”

Even choking slightly, gagging the words out with Frank’s hand clutching his neck, Wilson’s got a good voice. Smart mouth, but a good voice.

“Maybe I should gag you,” Frank threatens, tightening his grip. The idea of choking someone out isn’t exactly a sexy one, but he’s spent enough time with Wade to have figured what got the merc’s motor running. Cable had said he liked strength, not pain, but Frank wasn’t so sure about that analysis. Frank thinks, maybe, a guy who can’t stay dead might have a strange relationship with pain.

Wade’s eyes are bright, glittering with reflexive tears from the rough handling, and the look he wears is both warm and mocking. When Frank relaxes his grip a little, he says, “What if I wanna safe word out?”

He laughs when Frank pauses, and it takes more self-control than Frank wants to admit to keep himself from from tightening his grip, or shoving Wilson off him entirely.  “Are you gonna,” he asks, because now that the idea is out there -- that there might be something he’d do that Wilson wouldn’t want -- he needs it to be clear. He doesn’t want anything Wilson isn’t good with.

The question is rewarded with a fond sound, fingers stroking over the short hairs at the nape of Frank’s neck. “Big boy negotiations, I dig it. I’ll tap out if you go too hard,” he demonstrates by slapping three even strikes against Frank’s arm. “Now, _please,_ not to reference scenes the readers have definitely forgotten, would you _finally_ choke me?”

Wilson tips his head back just slightly, offering his throat, pressing it firm against the cup of Frank’s palm. Somehow, remembering grabbing Wade by the neck after waking up in Cable’s bed that first time makes Frank’s dick give an interested twitch, swelling against where Wilson is shimmying. He expects annoyance and gets arousal; oh, the times have indeed changed.

“Grasping, needy little bitch, aren’t you,” he growls, pressing his mouth to Wade’s and clutching his throat as hard as feels safe, licking into Wilson’s filthy mouth when he gasps. Wade’s fingers press hard against him, tangled in his hair and digging against his bicep. His eyes, usually sparked with some degree of mockery, go wide and then roll back when Frank rolls his hips up in a lazy arch, his free hand moving to press Wade firm against him. “Cable said you were a brat.”

Holding his grip until Wade’s hand jerks, sharp and clumsy, along his arm to grab at his wrist, Frank sits back against the couch, looking the merc over as Wade gasps a harsh breath. His face is brightened, high colour in his cheeks, lips parted to gulp at the air.

“God this is hot, please tell me that’s not a gun in your pants, I will be so disappointed in your flagrant disregar-ack!”

Those eyes go wide again, glassy with pleasure, and Frank takes a certain pride in the way Wade jerks into the touch of his hand, moving from hip to groin. It would be easier to get into the idiot’s pants if Frank could tear his eyes away from the way Wade’s mouth gapes, reflexively gawping at air he can’t take in. Conceptually, nothing about Wilson is sexy, but as with so many things in life, the practical experience is much different from speculation.

In practice, having Wade hot and hard and squirming as he chokes in Frank’s lap is objectively one of the sexier experiences he’s had. It’s rewarding to finally get past the trick of Wade’s fly and get a hand around the hot length of him, stroking just this side of rough simply to watch Wade jackknife where he sits.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget how to talk.”

Wade makes a horrible noise, hungry and faint, and Frank eases his grip before he can tap out. Blood has bloomed in the white of Wade’s right eye, clearing even as Frank watches. It’s amazing, how quick the guy bounces back from looking half-dead, talking all the while. “You could keep choking, it’s fine, it’s good, I won’t even charge extra if you get off while I’m out--”

Frank shoves him out of his lap with calculated force. “Get on the bed. Hands and knees.”

“Ooh, we’ve graduated to actually using the bed for its god-given purpose,” Wade cheers, moving gracefully to his feet only to trip on the tangle of his jeans still stuck around his thighs. He doesn’t fall, only stumbles, and Frank manages not to laugh, but only just. Only after Wade’s made it past the couch does Frank stand, strolling along behind him to watch Wilson shimmy out of the rest of his clothes as he climbs obediently onto the bed.

The man is a mess. His body is a cautionary tale -- though exactly what it’s warning against, Frank couldn’t quite say -- and his mouth only stops running when his dick is too hard for the rest of him to function. None of that has stopped Frank from getting worked up from a little kissing and dirty talk, and he’d be lying if he tried to say he hasn’t given some thought to fucking Wilson like this.

He makes a detour to the little bedside table, grabs the little bottle of lube he’d bought in anticipation of Wilson showing up without having already slicked himself up. And it _was_ Wilson he’d thought of when he’d bought it, the unbelievable tightness and inhuman heat of him, the eager way he’d taken Frank’s cock, riding him on the couch. He thought about Wade more than their limited encounters probably warranted.

While the purchase may have been impulsive at the time, it feels justified now.

Wilson is on his elbows and knees, watching Frank with amused eyes as he strips off his shirt and tosses it neatly into the hamper in the corner. It’s really probably good for another wear, he hasn’t done much today, but he knows if he folds it and sets it aside Wilson will start up some commentary and he’s not in the mood for that.

Much better is the noise Wade makes when Frank slides a hand over the curve of his ass, pulling him open a little. It’s a little weird, how surface stuff doesn’t matter after a minute -- Wade’s always going to be called ugly, by himself and by others, but Frank can’t find it in him to give a shit about what the man looks like when he’s eagerly putting himself in Frank’s hands like this. He’s a mess and a hazard and god’s own idiot, but he’s passionate and tries to do good more often than not, and being ugly as sin isn’t enough to hide any of that.

Pulling away, Frank squeezes a dollop of lube onto his palm, taking the time let it warm a bit against his skin and using his free hand to encourage Wade to part his legs wider, pushing between his shoulders until Wade drops with a put upon huff so his chest is against the comforter. It’s going to be a mess before they’re done, Frank thinks, and he doesn’t feel like grabbing a towel now so he’ll probably have to strip the bed before he can sleep. Fine, whatever; he doesn’t really care.

Not nearly as much as he cares about the approving moan he gets from Wade when he sweeps up a goodly portion of the lube and smears it over Wade’s hole, not pushing in right away, taking his time. It’s obvious Wilson wants it hard and fast, and Frank thinks they might get to that soon enough, but he’s weirdly enjoying himself, figuring out all the things that make Wade squirm and groan and gasp.

“Oh my god, five star service,” the man babbles, and Frank is fascinated by how, as he presses a finger into the tight heat of him, Wade grapples with the sheets, raking his fingers over the softness like he can’t figure out what to do with himself. “You even warmed it up, fuck, I don’t know who trained you but I wanna keep you, god, fuck, it’s gotta be so OOC for you to be this good with butt stuff, what the shitting hell fuck.”

“I really should gag you,” Frank intones, and grins when Wade snaps something back in a language he doesn’t recognize. Chinese, maybe. When he tries to rock back against Frank’s hand, Frank slaps him hard across the back of his thigh, feeling him clench as he moans. “You don’t want to call the shots, remember? So shut up and let me work.”

He watches, waits for Wade to open his mouth to complain, and pushes a second finger into him, finding that he enjoys the initial resistance almost as much as the way Wade’s body ultimately yields to him. He likes the way Wade’s got his chest flat to the bed now, fingers wound tight in the comforter. “Oh, you’re such a bitch,” he gasps out, a shudder working visibly along the muscles of his back as Frank rolls his fingers, trying to remember the way Cable had done this to him, the angle, the pressure. “You realize you can’t hurt me, we don’t have to do the foreplay shit, you can go in raw, we’re good, it’s fine, let’s go.”

“Maybe I don’t want to chafe my dick fucking you,” Frank says, and there’s no helping the low chuckle that leaves him when Wade suddenly buries his face in the bedding, curses muffled and desperate as Frank works his fingers just so. It’s not, he thinks, exactly the same gesture as Cable had used on him, but this isn’t some sunny mountain safe house, and the dynamic between them is so different.

He works his fingers for a moment, wondering if he should push a third in. Not because he has to -- he believes Wade when he says the effort in unnecessary -- but because as hard as he is, as eager as he is, he’s enjoying the sight and sound of Wilson losing his goddamn mind, hot and so tight around his fingers. They’ve only got the light from the street and from the lamp by the couch, Wade’s face almost lost in the shadow as he starts panting, probably drooling; it’s enough that Frank considers getting up and turning on the bedside light so he can watch the mouthy merc fall apart.

“Please, c’mon, c’mon, Frank, please,” Wade breathes, and the bad lighting doesn’t really matter when Wade’s looking up at him from the corner of his eye, face pressed to the sheets, body taut and trembling. “I need it, fuck, please, c’mon…”

Oh, and that has to be calculated, that has to be bait, but it’s damn good bait and Frank’s as susceptible to begging as the next guy. Frank isn’t sure he’s ever shucked his pants so quick, mostly one handed to avoid smearing the last bits of lube over denim that’s otherwise perfectly good for another few wears. He wraps his slicked hand around himself and strokes just enough to spread the gel and then he’s on the bed behind Wade, hands on him, holding him, letting his cock slide along the cleft of his ass.

All of him is so oddly textured, Frank knows this already; the irregular lumps and bumps are as present inside as they are outside, but it’s still strange, feeling that texture even here, the inner curve of his ass as fucked up as any other part of him. And yet it’s still a nice ass, cheeks round and firm under his hands, the sight of his slick cock sliding between enough to earn an appreciative noise from Frank.

“God, Frank, please, this is so fucking mean,” Wade sounds desperate and broken, and Frank takes pity on him then, shifting his grip to get himself lined up and press into that tight, brilliant heat. When he finally breaches Wade’s ass, the man truly does sob.

“Fuck,” he growls, sinking in slow and careful. “You’re still so damn tight.”

“Healing factor, big dick, good combo,” Wade breathes, eager. He makes this low, agonized sound when, as he tries to rock back against Frank, Frank grips onto his hips hard, keeping him still. “Why are you like this, I thought we were friends, come _on_!”

“Listen to you,” Frank chuckles, hands clenched hard to Wade’s hips, finally buried to the root. At this angle he can fuck Wade as fast and hard as he wants, but he’s enjoying tormenting Wade for the moment, and so sticks to a shallow rocking for the moment. “For a guy who says he doesn’t wanna call the shots, you got a lot of orders to give.”

Another string of curses groaned into the bed. “Since when is this a lovemaking fic? You’re supposed to _punish me_ , you big fuckin’ fraud.”

Frank isn’t sure he’s ever struggled not to laugh during a fuck before. He masters the impulse, pulling out just to make Wade scrabble and whine. “Have you been being good, or have you been a demanding little shit?”

“Oh my god, you weren’t kidding about that,” Wade breathes, wondering tone rising into a pleased groan when Frank sinks in faster this time. “Please, _fuck, Frank,_ tell me you’ve put this show on for Nate, god.”

“Is that really what you wanna hear?”

The noise Wade makes is some strangled thing, a moan and a laugh. “Liked you better on the couch,” he manages, finally going still, pliant under Frank’s hands. “Dick-drunk and nutting at the idea of me collaring you.”

Really, Frank keeps expecting this to feel more complicated, for the fun to wear off and it try to feel like something it’s not. He’s self-aware enough to know that his methods of interacting with others has gotten increasingly, as the professionals would put it, fucked up. Almost every pleasant feeling he might have for someone is tangled up in so much extra baggage and bullshit that the idea of anything just being simple and enjoyable is foreign.

Except this _is_ simple. Wade is a friend, maybe not the safest man to let his guard down around but still a friend. Fucking him is fun for both of them, and the vague irritation he feels when Wade says something particularly stupid is as complicated as the emotional involvement gets.

He rewards Wade’s compliance by setting an easy, firm rhythm, giving him _something_ , even if it’s not what he really wants. It’s enough to make him moan and wriggle restlessly again, clearly enjoying himself even as he calls Frank a bastard.

“I’m gonna fall asleep,” Wade snarls when Frank curls over him, knocking his arm back against the bed when he tries to stroke himself off. “What do I gotta to do to get you to _fuck_ me? I’m a brat, you finger me for an age, I be good, you stick your dick in and refuse to move. I’m gonna cry or kill you and either way you’re not gonna be happy.”

Frank laughs breathlessly, wrapping an arm around Wade’s slim hips and gripping him tight, making his tirade break off with a eager whine. “You think lying there bitching is good behaviour, Wilson? Thought I told you to shut up.”

The look Wade gives, even with half his face hidden in the bedding and the low light throwing him in shadow, is scandalized and harassed, but after a second more of stillness, his tilts his face more into the bed, biting on the comforter and effectively gagging himself. Frank starts putting more effort into his movement now, keeping his motions shallow so he can jerk Wade off for a minute before releasing him, gripping his hips in both hands and slamming back in as hard as he can. The gasping, aching sound of relief that move gets is, to say the least, gratifying.

He expects the babbling to return, but Wade manages to keep to wordless gasping and moaning. The mottled skin of the man’s back is darkened in a bright flush, heat baking off him, and Frank lets himself go a little stupid for a minute, just enjoying the heat, the tight clutch of the other man’s body, the eager, desperate gasping when he gets the angle just right.

“This better,” he asks. “This good?”

Wade makes this strangled sound, twisting to look over his shoulder at Frank. It seems to take him a minute to find words, which in and of itself is gratifying, but then he manages, “Course it is, you're my good boy.”

It’s nothing that _should_ excite him, burn him up with a sudden desire to get Wade off the way he had last time, but it does. “Touch yourself,” he orders, voice a little rougher. “Get yourself off.”

There’s not much finesse in it after that. Frank holds on tight enough that he’s pretty sure it’s lighting Wade up with bruises, and finds that angle that makes Wade gasp and stumble in his own grab for pleasure. It’s a little different like this, Wilson pinned beneath him, jerking himself off in sharp, uncoordinated motions, Frank the one controlling the pace. Different, but good, and he grits his teeth against some obscene noise when Wade tenses up and comes in his own fist, following almost immediately, unable to help it in the face of that almost-too-tight heat.

He doesn’t collapse on top of Wade, but it’s a near thing, the force of his orgasm leaving him feeling a little stupid, uncoordinated. He falls heavily on his side, so the bed gives one more irritable groan of springs and stressed frame, and lets himself catch his breath. He’s not surprised when Wade shimmies from where he’s laying to regain some contact. Seems like Wade is always eager for touch, fond or violent.

When Frank’s got his wits back a little, he presses his hand down Wade’s side, stroking over his flank to settle on his hip, feeling for any obvious damage. If it was bruised, the skin seems unmarred now, and that’s fine. Frank’s not altogether sure how he feels about putting marks on a partner, so them not sticking is weirdly disappointing and a relief.

After a few minute of just laying there like that, Wade surprisingly calm and quiet against him, he makes himself sit up a little and look at the glowing alarm clock. He groans at the hour, knows his sleep schedule is gonna be fucked over anyway, and presses his face against Wade’s shoulder. It’s not a kiss, really, but it’s enough to get a happy little hum from the mercenary.

“If I let you stay the night, are you gonna try to make me late for work?”

Wade makes a vague, amused noise, his tone giving away the mischievous smile Frank can’t see. “Am I gonna get punished if I do?”

It’s too late and Frank’s feeling too good to come up with a good threat, so instead he shoves Wade and sits up. “Go take a shower then. I’ll fix the bed.”

“What, you don’t wanna fall asleep in our own filth like the desperate lovebirds we are?”

A particularly forceful shove lands Wilson in a heap beside the bed. “You’re not getting back in this bed until you shower. And hurry the fuck up, I have to be up in less than six hours.”

Wilson laughs as he gets to his feet, ducking down to smack his lips against Frank’s, rough and off center and almost a joke. “You’re a good fuck, but your pillow talk needs work,” he says, and howls when Frank grabs a pillow and slaps it across his face.

It’s an obnoxious laugh, but Frank finds he’s still laughing as the bathroom door shuts and the water groans its way through the pipes. After a second, he gets up and starts pulling the dirty comforter off the bed, making it ready to sleep in. Picking the scattered clothes and shoving them into the hamper as well, he makes a mental note to go to the laundromat. It’s about time anyway, unless he wants to cut his losses and just throw comforter away.

He cracks the window so the smoke alarm doesn’t blat its idiot noise and tosses the light quilt from the bottom drawer of his dresser over the bed. It makes it look ridiculously homey, the faded colours of the quilt bright against the drab of the rest of his room.

Flipping off the living room lamp he lays down, starting to doze even as he hears the water go off and the bathroom door creak open. He hums and shifts into a more comfortable position when Wilson slips in behind him, nuzzling at his neck.

“You realize we’re both naked,” Wade mock whispers. “Which is basically an invitation for sloppy morning sex.”

“Shut up ‘n go to sleep, Wade,” Frank grumbles, trying to hide his smile when, for a wonder, Wade actually obeys.


End file.
